"The Doomsday Strain": Michael Spector churns out a joyless Letter from Cameroon. It begins with his ribs being elbowed by a slightly misanthropic biologist named Nathan Wolfe. The writing is morose:
"'There is simply no greater threat to humanity than a viral pandemic.' Wolfe told me. 'If, tomorrow, I had to go to Las Vegas and place a bet on the next great killer, I would put my money on a virus.'"The titular strain is never really touched upon. It's just a long survey of Wolfe's foul life, and the nastiness Wolfe thinks is in store for humanity. This guy is obsessed with viruses. He teaches an undergraduate class called Viral Lifestyles. Several opportunities for nasty jokes about college life are tastefully passed up by the writer, or, perhaps, the editor.
Overall, reminded me of David Remnick's profile of the dude obsessed with Charlie Parker. Lives, breathes, eats Charlie Parker. That was a much better read, but that's because I like jazz. And the eccentric in question didn't come so highly credentialed. If this Wolfe had been a mild-mannered former truck driver who left his wife and kids to go fulfill his undying passion for extracting blood and feces from bats, if he didn't come so highly credentialed, I think I would have enjoyed it more. Overall, Spector did all right with what he had to work with.
"Village Voice": Peter Hessler gets suckered into writing a puff piece about the Peace Corp and one fanatical former member, Rajeev Goyal, who has been spending the past few years bird-dogging congressmen in DC to hound them for better Corp funding.
It made me smile to read that President Nixon tried to do away with the Peace Corp.
Rajeev on politics:
"'People believe that to be in politics you have to be a politician. That's not true at all. You can be the lowest villager and still be involved.'"If I were in charge of cartoon placement, I would have inserted close to that quote this Charles Barsotti cartoon :
And there were little flourishes in this piece that you could only find in the New Yorker: The type of lines that make it so despised by my friends.
"The Maoist's cell phone rang -- it played the Internationale. He cut it off before the part about 'the damned of the earth.'"
Yes, yes. Quite so. [daily chuckle]
"Art Stalker": Jane Kramer spins a facinating yarn about the consistent poaching Robin Heidi Kennedy's artwork. Would love to meet whoever is stealing this. Never heard of her before, but she seems well established. Kennedy was not amused by the attention at all. I guess she assumes that the guy/gal won't stop at merely collecting her artwork. The writing is light and breezy in an effortless, highly controlled manner. All hail Jane Kramer.
"Mother Courage": John Calopinto wants me to read about debilitating muscular disease called Duchenne. No thank you, sir; I stopped after the first two pages.
"A Cursing Mommy Serenity Prayer": Sandy Frazier...always envisioned him as a wiry thin, neurotic type. Saw him on the Daily Show: he's a little bloated and seemed relatively at ease with the world. He looked sort of like Frazier Crane...a little bit. All the Ians I have known have been thin. He's an outlier. Enjoyed his writing on Siberia. This piece, whatever it is...Roz Chast with a potty-mouth...it sucked.
Assessment: Is it work buying to read the stuff behind the paywall? No.
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